Mirror Mask
by yra
Summary: It has nothing to do with me, and everything to do with her." Strongly implied B/A through the eyes of a third party.
1. A Big, Strong Man

_Disclaimer: Not mine, not making any money, just borrowing for a bit…_

_A/N: First CI fic, hope you like. It is an angsty A/B through the eyes of an outsider._

He's smoking like a pro, hauling the nicotine and tar and empty comfort hard into his lungs, and holding it for a long second, eyes closed. Then he opens his eyes, and lets it all go in a thin white cloud. He waits a moment, studying the ash collecting at the end of the cigarette. An expert flick of his left wrist sends a shower of brilliant sparks through the air. Even from where I sit at the far end of the bar I can see them reflected in those deep brown eyes, red sparks glistening like tears, then falling, cold and gray, into the ashtray.

Then he raises the cigarette back to his lips in a gentle kiss, and starts over again.

I can count four cigarette butts in the ashtray in front of him. The look on the bartender's face is uncertain as he obeys the slight movement of the hand not clenching ashes and pain and refills the short glass. I don't even have to read the label to recognize the dark amber tumbling into that glass. He's drinking whiskey, straight up, and I'd guess he's been doing so for a while, the way the bartender bites his lip. But his hands are steady as he neglects his cigarette to toss back half the glass in one gulp. Then he returns with another soft, desperate kiss, like a repentant lover.

"Somebody's had a shitty day."

I pull my eyes away briefly to glance to my left. Charisma smirks with her deep red lips, and lifts a single, perfectly plucked eyebrow. She had a real name once, a billion years ago, probably something simple and sweet, like Molly, or Lucy, or Anne. Whatever it was, none of the girls know it. I don't think even she remembers. She learned fast from the streets, and learned what Charisma could get that little Molly-Lucy-Anne-whoever could not. If she painted her face and made up her hair and named the price and smiled when the men shoved it in her, then she could be the one in control. The other girls say she started out young, maybe sixteen, maybe twelve. Brandy says Charisma came out of her mother and asked the doctor if he wanted a good time.

Maybe that's not the greatest life to have led, but it definitely gives Charisma the edge in this world of smoky bars, cheap booze, and men. Always, always, there are the men. And right now, Charisma is telling me that the professional smoker is going to be a sure thing.

I find myself shaking my head.

"Two girls already tried," I remind her, swirling my too sweet drink around its glass. I hate mixed drinks, too sugary, trying to hide the delicious bite of real alcohol, but men don't want a woman who chugs a beer or downs scotch like they do. I have no idea what is so sexy about a woman sipping from a tall, flashy glass. Perhaps they like to pretend we're actually ladies, to ease their precious little egos.

Charisma laughs at me. "He's been looking at you all night, Vivienne. Trust me."

Again, I glance down the bar. He hasn't changed position, staring into the depths of his glass and sighing out smoke. He wears jeans and a black sweatshirt, sleeves pushed up. Nice arms. A black leather jacket is tossed over the short back of his stool. It was nice once, but now looks worn, tired. His hair was probably dark a few years ago, but gray is winning a battle he seems to have already given up on. He needs a shave, but then, every other man in this place could use a shower, so that's not so bad. He's big, which scares me a little, because I'm not big at all. He could probably pick me up with one hand, throw me over his shoulder, and carry me out, caveman style, without dropping his cigarette.

"Charisma—"

"You wanna eat?" she mutters, her voice firm, but not unkind. "You wanna keep your place? You like having heat?"

I nod slowly. "Yeah."

"Then get your cute little ass over there, and do your thing. Work it while you got it, baby," she whispers, running her scarlet-tipped finger down that long scar over her eye and her cheek. "Work it while you got it."

So I slide off my stool, and slip my arms into the sleeves of my denim jacket. Charisma taught me a few days ago to leave it dangling off my elbows, and never over my shoulders. It makes a girl look vulnerable, like she needs a big strong man to help her into the jacket, and in the world in general.

So I leave it dangling and stroll, as casually as a girl can stroll in six inch heels, down the bar to this big, strong man.


	2. The Mask

_Disclaimer: Not mine, not making any money, just borrowing for a bit…_

I stop beside him, and slightly behind, but I know he can see me in the corner of his eye. He doesn't move, doesn't react. I wait for nearly a minute as he fills the room with more and more smoke. Finally I give up on silence, and lean further into his line of sight.

"Is anyone sitting here?" I ask softly, gesturing with one hand.

It's just a glance from the corner of his eye, but it's an acknowledgment. He gives his head a slight shake. I try to boost myself up into the chair, but my shoes have no traction, and my toe slips.

A hand catches me under the elbow. His fingers wrap easily around my arm, and meet against the tender white flesh of my inner arm. Somehow, in the second it took him to move, he managed to drop the cigarette into the ashtray. He releases his glass from his other hand, and turns all the way to face me.

I make a tiny movement towards the stool to try again. His fingers tighten slightly, and I freeze. He rakes his eyes over me, and I try not to mind. _Part of the job,_ I remind myself. Besides, I was studying him pretty hard just a few minutes ago. His mouth turns down a little as he looks at those damn dangerous heels, and the soft little white halter dress.

_His kind of girl doesn't wear heels and dresses._

Then he's staring hard into my face, and though his eyes don't go any lower than my jaw, I suddenly feel naked. Those eyes are sharp, hard, like they can pull away the mask I wear, the one all the working girls wear. That mask of perfect, polished silver and crystal clear glass, so seamless over ourselves that the men can't even tell it's there. And when they look into our faces, they don't see us, because who _we_ are isn't important. Instead they see reflected there whatever, or whoever, they want to see. They see us as that girl, the one in the office who gave them the cold shoulder, the fiancée who took the ring and left them with the bill, or the woman whispering, "Let's just be friends."

Yet this man's eyes are carving through the glass, through the mask. In a second he will rip it from my face, and bare my soul to everyone in this smoky, poisonous place. He will show them all who, and what, I am, and even Charisma will hate me.

But he stops suddenly, his eyes frozen on my forehead. _No,_ I realize. _My hair._ He seems mesmerized by the way the dark blonde bangs fan over my forehead, and fall down to brush against my eyelashes. With one finger of his right hand, he traces a single lock of hair as it curves down to frame the left side of my face. Then he's staring at my nose, my lips, and finally my eyes. I know they are a soft brown, and though I can dress vulnerable, I know my eyes don't flinch from his.

For the first time that night, he smiles, just a tiny bit. He runs a thumb down from my temple, over my cheek, and along my jaw, to rest at the point of my chin. He is smoothing the mask back on, and looking into the glass to see what he wants to see.

The hand under my elbow helps me onto the seat. I let the denim jacket slide off my arms, and pool, like his, on the low back of the stool. He releases my arm, and raises his hand to bartender. The man seems relieved to find it's me, and not him, that needs a drink.

I order whiskey, the same brand he's drinking. He smiles wryly at me from the corner of his eye. A pack of cigarettes appears in his hand. He shakes one forward, silently offering it to me. I make a slight face and shake my head. He shrugs, pulls it out, lights it, and begins again.

We don't speak as he smokes and I drink. He seems content to keep me merely in the corner of his eye. I wonder if the blur of peripheral vision and whiskey makes it easier to pretend I'm…whoever she is. A blonde, with brown eyes. That much I know, but there are no shortage of those in the world. It doesn't really matter. Not to me.

I finish my drink, and turn slightly until my knee is resting against his. He glances down, and stairs hard at my knee, as if demanding an explanation from it for being there. Perhaps he reads some answer in it. Perhaps he just likes the idea that there is a body beside his. His face is a better mask than any I'll ever manage as he lets his left hand settle on my knee.

I cover his hand with mine, and cock my head just a little to the side. He meets my eyes, and I raise both my brows at him.

_Yes?_

_No?_

He looks again at my bare knee pressed to his denim clad one. He strokes the soft skin just below my knee cap with his thumb while he turns those options over in his head. Usually, they take all of two seconds to decide, then they are pulling me out the door, slobbering on my neck as their hands grope desperately for my breasts. Sometimes they can't even wait for the apartment building, pushing me up against the nearest wall.

It is almost two minutes before he raises his eyes again to mine. That mask is still firmly in place, but in the back of his eyes, I think I catch a glimmer of defeat. He nods, but with the tiny shrug that indicates, _Why not?_

Perhaps it's not the most flattering offer I've ever had, but it will do.

He helps me into my jacket. He pays for our drinks, and holds the door. It's chilly out as he slings his own coat around his shoulders and waits for me to lead the way. I start off, and he's beside me, and when my heel catches on a crack in the sidewalk, his hand is once again there. He slides an arm around my waist, not rough, not demanding, and I lean over into him, and let my cheek rest on his arm because I don't even reach all the way to his shoulder, and maybe I'm not a twenty-seven-year-old hooker looking for some quick cash, and maybe he's not some poor whiskey-chugging chain-smoking bastard thinking of someone else, and suddenly it's not really cold out after all.


	3. Everything and Nothing

_Disclaimer: Not mine, not making any money, just borrowing for a bit…_

The apartment building doesn't have a doorman. It has buzzers, but five out of every six don't work. You have to have a key to get in the front door, but the windows don't all lock, and the fire escape is way too easy to get to from the ground. The only thing it has going for it, at least from my opinion, is a landlord who doesn't ask any questions about all the strange men coming and going at all hours, and a good dozen other working girls who will catch your back if you're in too far over your head.

As I struggle with the damn rusted lock, his hand is still resting at the small of my back. The lock clicks; the door sticks. I curse and kick it, which never works but sometimes makes me feel better. He leans past me, grabs the handle, and gives one hard yank. The door comes open more quickly than he expected, and nearly slams into me. I put out a hand to protect myself, stumble back into his hard, solid form, and for some reason I start to laugh.

He looks down into my face, eyes wide, as though startled by the sound of a laugh. He stares, and smiles a little. I can't help the smile on my face as I catch him by the front of his jacket and walk backwards into the building, pulling him after me.

I trip over my heels yet again, and then I'm falling against the wall of mailboxes. His left hand seizes me by the back of the neck. The fingers of his right hand are in my hair. He's against me, pushing me back, trapping me against the little locks and broken glass windows.

His lips are cold, like the wind outside. He tastes like whiskey and smoke and sin. I feel like he's breathing it into me, and if I'm not careful and let too much in, I'll be addicted to the taste, and to him. I don't know how they got there, but my arms are around his neck, pulling him down, closer. This isn't professional. This isn't the way I was taught to play the game. This is actually something I _want._

_Watch yourself!_ a voice screams in my head. _Do the job._

So I pull away, and pretend my legs aren't shaking. He lets me go, but when I look up in his face, his eyes are dark and roiling with heat. His hands trail down me throat before he pulls them away. I'm sure the heat left blisters across my skin, and I've never cared less.

My hand looks so tiny as I twine my fingers through his. But he doesn't have those huge, clumsy hands. They're long and elegant. My heart is racing as I wonder what he could do with those hands on my body. I pull him along with me towards the stairs, stumbling and giggling. He presses a finger to my lips, as though we are two teenagers sneaking up the stairs and trying not to wake my parents. I find myself catching his finger in my teeth, and pulling it into my mouth. My tongue runs up the underside, and I don't care that it tastes like nicotine and tar and the thoughts of another woman. Because I'm the one who he is grabbing, and whose lips are again sealed to his.

It may be him who tripped this time. I feel the stairs suddenly under my butt, and my back. He pulls away, and teasingly shakes his head. Then he's sliding down a few steps, and his hands are sliding down my thigh, over my knee, and down to my ankle. The strap to my shoe comes free, and he pulls it off. Another long stroke down my other leg, and I am barefoot without even pantyhose.

Suddenly the stairs are much easier to navigate. My shoes are dangling from the fingers of my right hand. My left is knotted with his. We make it to the third floor, my floor, and crash through the door. I'm laughing and holding my breath not to laugh which only makes it worse. His chest is against my arm, rising and falling faster and faster. I point to apartment 311, and turn with a grin.

He hauls me up against him, lifts me and pushes me against the door. His lips are on mine, so hungry, and I'm not caring that I'm on the job as his tongue quests into my mouth. He's breathing like he's run a thousand miles, and the hands on my back are anything but gentle. The right holds me against him. The other slips down, under my butt, pulling me higher again. _It's easier,_ I tell myself as I settle my weight on his hips, _and safer._

The left hand is sliding up my thigh now, pushing my skirt higher. I bite down on my lip, and fumble with my keys. I have to get him into the apartment. I know that, but I want just a few more minutes where he's devouring my taste.

His lips are on my neck. My hands are under his jacket. One manages to work its way under his sweatshirt, and my nails scratch at his flesh. Teeth worry at my earlobe, and it takes everything I have not to moan. If I didn't know better, I'd think this guy was a professional, too. He does the most amazing things with his mouth…

"Inside," I manage to breathe against his ear. My voice is so low and husky I almost don't recognize it. "I have a bed inside."

He's letting me down, slowly. My God, is he big. My feet are on the ground, but he's not letting me go. His hands cup my face, and his touch is achingly tender.

Those eyes are on me again, so sharp. He sees what he wants to see…but suddenly I don't know if that pleases him. His lips are moving, he's trying to tell me, no, _her,_ something. No sound is coming out. The dark flame in his eyes is flaring wildly. His jaw is tense, his teeth clenched.

The fingers on my face are beginning to tighten.

His eyes are tracing every line on my face. Everything he sees, everything he wants, my skin, my hair, my face, my body, my eyes…it has nothing to do with me, and everything to do with _her._ Yet the want is mixed with a rage, slow burning. There is a desire bordering on hate, a tenderness that is nearly despair.

His lips move more. He shakes me slightly, not enough to hurt, but he is beginning to frighten me. He stares at my lips, willing me to talk with her voice, answer all the things he can't bare to breathe out loud.

So I stay quiet.

His eyes close as he silently whispers one more thing. I can't hear him. I've never been any good at reading lips. But I know, the way that I know the Earth is round and the sky is blue and New York is madness barely harnessed into the façade of a tame city, I know what he is trying so desperately to say.

"I love you."

I close my eyes as well, on tears of pity and understanding as he drops his head close to mine again. This kiss is so soft, and everything gentle about him, not taking, but giving his all, his tattered heart and broken soul, anything he has to give, as though he can breathe them through me into _her_.

For one crazy moment I wonder, as he kisses me in some dirty hallway outside an apartment that is as much the home of roaches and rats as me, if she isn't suddenly sitting up in her clean white bed, whispering his name, the taste of smoke and whiskey on her lips.

Probably not, but it would be nice if she did.

He's leaving my lips…he's leaving me. I can feel him beginning to pull away, even as he nuzzles his face into my neck. His mouth is moving yet again, not talking, but questing like an infant, looking for some comfort. Then the shoulders under my hands tense as he braces himself.

Slowly, he draws a deep breath through his nose, smelling my skin, my hair, my sweat.

He raises his head. His hands are still holding my face. They tighten more. The mask is beginning to crack. In his eyes there are flaws in _her_ reflection, and beneath, he is seeing me. Just me.

And I'm not the one he wants.

The flame is dead, and his eyes are black, burnt out.

His hands trail away.

The night is cold again.

He looks around, as though surprised to find himself here. He doesn't know where he is. He doesn't know how he'll get back. But I know, as I know anything, that _she_ will lead him home. And maybe he'll be okay.

I hope so.

"How much does it cost to live here?"

I jump. His voice is soft, but rough. Tired. He sounds so tired. He isn't looking at me, but inspecting a bit of graffiti on one of the walls, his head cocked at an odd angle. I think he's honestly curious.

"It's, uh, it's daily," I tell him. I pretend my voice isn't trembling. "Twenty-five dollars a day."

He turns his head the other way, still studying the spray paint on the wall. He takes a step back to get a more comprehensive look. His hand dips into his pocket. He pulls out a wallet, pulls out some bills, and holds them out to me. I take them, dumbly silent and confused. He squints at the picture, and finally gives a defeated shrug.

He turns away, and starts back down the hall. He isn't coming into the apartment. He isn't paying me for sex. I don't know what the money in my hand is for. I look at the bills. Four twenties, one ten, and a handful of ones. A little over a hundred dollars, for nothing.

Pity pay.

_Bastard._

"It's a cat," I call after him. "The damn painting. It's a cat."

He may have heard me. Maybe not. He turns the corner and is gone.

I roll my eyes, and stare at the money. It's so tempting to run after him and shove it back into his wallet. Then maybe a good knee to the groin, just for humiliation's sake. But a real working girl doesn't act like that, and would never give back money made so easy. So instead I find the right key, and let myself into the apartment.

"Damn, Freemont, what happened to you?"

I'm still holding my shoes, I know my jacket and dress are rumpled, and my hair…I don't even want to think about _that._ I don't know what to think at all. Instead I drop my shoes, ignore Jones sitting on the couch, and march through the living room, into the kitchen. I grab a bottle of Coke from the refrigerator, and wish, not for the first time, or even the hundredth time, that Captain Vincent would just let us keep some damn beer in the fridge. Then I return to the living room and collapse next to my idiot partner.

"I got stood up."

"Say again?" he asks. "I know I heard you get shoved up against the door. What happened?"

I twist the top off, _hard._ Throw it across the room. Try not to sulk.

"He didn't want to come in."

"Why not?" Jones demands, utterly bewildered and slightly frustrated.

"I don't know! He was set to go, and I mean maybe against the damn door, and I tried to get him in the apartment…and he put me down and…"

Jones raises both eyebrows. "And?"

"And he realized he was going to wake up tomorrow morning and he would be lying next to someone he didn't want who kinda looks like the one he _does_ want."

"They never make that distinction," Jones said thoughtfully. "So, nothing happened?"

"He didn't solicit me, he didn't hit me, he didn't even mention 'business' or 'prices' or anything like that which could possibly be said to promote prostitution."

"Then…what's with the cash in your hand?"

I glare at the bills, and drop them into Jones' lap. "He asked me how much my apartment cost, gave me the cash, and left."

"So…he's an honest guy," Jones guesses.

"Who, I would guess, doesn't even remotely tend to seek out prostitutes," I admit, rubbing my eyes.

"Well, then I guess it's a good thing we didn't have to bust him." Jones stands up and stretches, before turning on the lamp. The sudden light glints off the badge pinned to his jacket, and the handcuffs and gun lying beside the couch, within easy reach. "Unfortunately, Captain's gonna be pissed that you wasted a night on a guy who didn't do anything illegal."

"But," I say, pulling my legs up onto the couch so I can cross them like a child, "I followed Charisma's orders. She set me up with the guy. That gets me a step closer to finding my way into her little gang…"


	4. Three Weeks Later

_Disclaimer: Not mine, not making any money, just borrowing for a bit…_

Three Weeks Later

The blood is everywhere.

I'm trying not to look, because I can't let the other girls around me know I'm studying the scene like a cop, and because I can't stand the sight of Brandy with her face smashed in like that.

A crowbar, one of the uniforms already announced. They found it in the dumpster. Not very original for a hiding place, or very smart. The cops are hustling around, stepping over Brandy to get to the other body. Her "date." I recognize him. He's a judge, and a regular with Charisma's girls. His head got dealt with pretty hard from the crowbar, too, but the blows are mostly to Brandy. Of course, all these little ants don't care about the dead hooker. They cluster, whispering, around the judge's body.

"Come on, girls."

Charisma has appeared from nowhere. She looks over the judge, her face mildly troubled. Then she glances at Brandy, and for a second I think she might cry. But no, she hasn't cried since she stopped being that poor street kid and became Charisma.

She's trying to herd us all away, her voice with that strange, harsh gentleness only she can manage. In a second there are three uniforms in front of her, demanding that she go back. They're threatening her with all kinds of trouble if she tries to leave the crime scene. She smiles at them, promising to do anything to help New York's finest. Her dark gold eyes are glittering like a she-wolf between her cubs and three wild boar. A coarse joke from one of the uniforms, and a stray hand on the ass of one of the girls, makes her lick her lips just a little. Given half a chance, she'd rip off his…well, anyway. I don't think there's a real working girl in the world who actually likes men, and Charisma is the epitome of all things working girl.

Two detectives from vice are already working the scene, Detectives David Jones and Larry Higgens. I see an SUV pull up, and disappear behind the nearest building. The words "Major Case" are whispered from one patrolman to another. Of course, Major Case would be here for a dead judge.

Jones is heading towards us. He scans us all indifferently, and lets his eyes come back to me. He squints, like he's trying to remember something, then points directly in my face. If we were in the squad room, me in jeans and a tee instead of a leather miniskirt and a top that cannot actually be called a shirt, I would slap his hand away, or try to bite him. Instead I drop my eyes to the ground and look slightly rebellious.

"You," he barks at me. "We arrested you once with this girl. Randy, right?"

"_Her_ name," Charisma murmurs pleasantly, pointing to the dead body, "is Brandy. This lady's name is Vivienne."

"Lady?" Jones drags a disgusted eye over me. "Right. Well, _lady,_ over here. I want a word with you."

He grabs my arm, and begins to pull me away. Charisma hisses like an enraged cat, and takes a step forward. I give her an appeasing gesture, though, and she stays.

Apparently, the nearest warehouse has become some kind of base. Jones shoves me inside the manager's office, and slams the door. Then he relaxes with a sigh.

"God, what a mess," he groans. "And you know that Major Case is going to run roughshod all over the place, and we're going to lose any ground we've gained with Charisma."

"She didn't like you manhandling me," I remind him. "If anyone knows what this is about, it's Charisma. And—"

We both stop talking as the door swings open.

A woman walks in, her smile perfectly friendly. For a second I'm ignored as she reaches past me, and sticks out her hand.

"Hey, Jonesie."

"Eames." He grabs her by the wrist, and yanks her against him in a bear hug. She laughs, and pats him on the back. Then she turns and scrutinizes me, still smiling.

"Who's this one?"

"Ah, this is Detective Jamie Freemont. Free, meet Detective Alexandra Eames. She used to work vice with me, before moving on to bigger and better things."

For some reason, this seems to be very funny to Eames. She laughs a little to herself, and I take my turn to study her. Dark blonde hair falling over one eye, light honey-brown eyes, and tiny. She could be my sister. I can see she's thinking the same thing, because she smiles more.

"So, let's talk about the corpses," she announces cheerfully.

We talk about the corpses, and where I last saw Brandy, and what kind of case we're building against Charisma, and what kind of clientele she usually deals with. Eames is quiet, letting us do most the talking, but I know she is catching everything we say. She nods a lot, and asks questions.

Just as we're explaining our next step, and Jones is begging her to maybe work around our investigation because we have been at this for three months, you know, the door opens again. A tall man with grizzled hair and an amused smile on his face sticks his head in, and says six words.

"Eames, he's scaring the uniforms again."

She ignores this for a moment, and asks, "Logan, what are you doing here?"

"Turns out your dead guy isn't just any judge. His brother-in-law is the police commissioner. So you guys get us for backup. And, seriously, he's scaring the uniforms."

I look at Jones. He shrugs. By the time I look back at the Major Case detectives, they're already on the move, passing out of the warehouse. Jones takes my arm, and marches me back out as roughly as he marched me in.

Charisma and the girls are standing closer to the warehouse now, all of them with their heads craned back to look at the metal awning over the warehouse's office door. A glance around shows many of the patrolmen, as well as Higgens, in much the same position, with the same dumbfounded expressions. A young woman wearing a badge and quite a few freckles is moving along the crime scene, completely unconcerned with whatever is happening.

Eames and Logan walk out until they are no longer under the awning, then turn around. Logan looks like he may start to laugh. Eames looks slightly exasperated.

"How did you even get up there?" she calls out.

"Climbed."

For the second time, that voice makes me jump, soft, but rough. Jones, still holding my arm, doesn't notice, which is for the best. I pull away from him, and hurry to Charisma and the rest of the girls. Then I turn and follow their stares.

He is standing on the metal awning with an amazing disregard for his own life or health. He is studying the scene the way he studied the graffiti in my hall, tipping his head one way, then another. His hands raise and move in front of his face. It takes me a second to realize he is trying to trace the path of the crime.

"Bobby," Eames calls, "will you—?"

"I need a camera."

She hesitates, then sighs and shakes her head. Still, I catch a glimmer of a smile as she heads off. A moment later she reappears with a camera, followed closely by an annoyed looking CSU technician. She gives it to Logan, who is tall enough to actually be able to reach the awning. He, that is, Bobby, takes the camera with a mumbled thanks.

"So, ladies!" Eames says pleasantly, turning away as though it were perfectly normal for her partner to scale the sides of buildings. The girls all blink at her, and as she questions them, they keep looking back to the crazy man on the awning.

It gives me an excuse to do the same.

A nice suit, nice shoes, and a shave, yet he is definitely the man who tasted like smoke and made me want to forget my cover for just one night. He doesn't see me, snapping pictures from his strange perch. I try and pull my eyes back to Eames, to listen to her, yet one thought is skipping through my brain.

_A cop. He's a cop! He's Major Case!_

I have never been so happy not to have busted someone in my life.

"Wheeler!" he shouts. The detective with the freckles pauses beside Brandy. "Can you pull her hair back?"

She nods, as casual as Logan and Eames about his strange behavior. She sweeps back Brandy's beautiful red hair, her natural color, and I hear the camera start again.

"Thank you, ladies," Eames is saying. She sounds sincere. "Please, be careful out there."

She glances my way as she says it.

Then she brushes by me as he slides over the edge of the awning, and drops down. He winces and rubs his knee. Eames says something softly, her eyes sparkling with laughter. He looks down at her, and laughs as well, and I know.

I've gone so deep undercover that sometimes I forget I'm not actually a working girl. It's strange, to suddenly be able to see what he saw when he looked into my mask of mirror. He saw _her._

Little, blonde, brown-eyed Alexandra Eames.

Jones walks up to her, touches her shoulder. She looks at her old partner. Her new partner's eyes flare, and I see it.

Desire bordering on hate.

Tenderness that is nearly despair.

He begins to move away from Jones. As though tethered to him by something invisible and unspoken, Eames is pulled along without even touching him. He starts to talk, to analyze the crime scene. She is nodding and whispering back. Jones follows, but cannot keep up.

I think that is the idea.

Charisma is herding the other girls away. Then she turns and touches my arm. I follow her, the cop in me rejoicing at this new level of trust. We're getting closer, and maybe someday I won't have to play this part anymore. I can wear jeans and tees and lounge around the squad room and laugh with the guys and throw things at Jones and just be Jamie Freemont again.

But even Jamie Freemont will never be anything but a broken reflection of Alexandra Eames.

I look back over my shoulder. He is crouched over Brandy's body. He looks a little sad for a moment. Eames puts a hand on his shoulder, squeezes, and steps back. He turns his head, closes his eyes, and inhales through his nose, smelling her soap, her detergent, her very skin. His face calms, and he returns to work.

I look forward, and return to work, with only one thought in my head.

"Lucky bitch."


End file.
